


If Like Attracts Like

by Phoenixflame88



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Hunting, Jon Snow knows nothing, Master & Servant, Mind Games, Pre - A Game of Thrones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflame88/pseuds/Phoenixflame88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ned sends Jon to the Dreadfort to foster for a few months when Catelyn is sick and out of sorts during a difficult pregnancy. Lord Bolton thinks it only fitting he meets his own bastard. Written for ASOIAF Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Like Attracts Like

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Jon Snow will never understand Catelyn Stark, but he understands his duty. Lady Stark is with child, and sicker than she ever was with Bran or the girls. In between her retching, sleeping, and weeping, her tolerance of her bastard stepson had grown raw.

 _“The babe has the wolfsblood,”_ Ser Rodrik muttered once. When Jon had asked why Arya did not make her mother so ill, the white-haired knight snorted that she was a girl.

“You know this will only be a few months?” his father had asked, halfway to the Dreadfort.

Jon had nodded, unable to say anything. Being sent to foster wouldn’t be so bad, he supposed, but to be sent to a place called the _Dreadfort_ …

 _“You’ll be fine,”_ Theon had japed, eyes narrow in smirking mirth, the night before Jon left Winterfell. _“The Boltons only flay Starks. The Leech Lord has a bastard of his own.”_ Robb had shoved him but the ward only grinned.

As Jon understands it, Lord Bolton was the first to accept him as a guest. “ _Karhold and White Harbor were too slow,”_ Robb said, but it was only a guess. Just as likely they only refrained from a cold reply to please their liege lord. He is a bastard, not even one with two noble parents.

“He has a son named Domeric, close to Theon’s age,” his father said once. Jon knows now that Domeric is away at the Vale.

His father presented him with a gift before they left Winterfell. A sword, not fancy, but not blunted either. Jon wears it at his hip now, though he would give it back in a moment if he could return home. His host is not cruel, but far from welcoming. They met on the road—his father wished to return to Winterfell as quickly as possible. Jon, Roose Bolton, and Bolton’s two guards and attendant left in one direction, his father and Stark men in the other.

The road they now travel on is flanked by small fields, but a dark-wooded forest is always close. The central and southern North is largely green this time of year, while the north-most reaches stay white. This far east, almost everything is brown, gray, or sage.

Lord Bolton’s face hardly moves. Jon himself has gray eyes, but Roose’s are almost colorless. He has a cold, soft voice, sluiced with courtesy and nothing more. Colder, if similar to the way Sansa talks to him when her mother is within earshot.

“We should be seeing them soon, bastard. My son’s servant at least is punctual.” The lord narrows his eyes when Jon stiffens. “I mean no offense, but do not pretend you are Lord Stark’s trueborn son.”

“Are we not going to the Dreadfort, my lord?”

Roose does not stop, merely angles his horse so he can better see Jon. He rides a black palfrey that moves like a dancer. Jon had wondered why the lord chose such a slender animal but it seems to suit him. A pale pink cloak hangs over the palfrey’s hindquarters, trimmed with red.

“We are going to collect my own bastard. Like attracts like, does it not?”

Jon cocks his head, thinking of Theon’s remark. “Your…son…does not live with you?”

Lord Bolton’s chuckle reminds him of dry leaves when wind whips through a forest.

“No, I would not bring that on my wife. He lives with his mother at a mill. But I have had a mind to get to know him better, in case he is useful.”

“How so?”

Roose allows a fleeting smile that does not reach his eyes. Theon said never to trust someone like that…most times he wants to prove his foster-brother wrong, anything to jar that grin, but Jon has realized he somewhat knows the way of it. When it comes to _some_ things.

“I might as well find a use for him. My son Domeric must stay clean. A bastard’s hands are already blackened. Of course I mean no offense.”

 _He doesn’t_ , Jon thinks. _He just doesn’t care if he causes any._

“Do you miss him—Domeric?”

Under the edge of a sharp cheekbone, Lord Bolton’s thin lips curve in a smile. It contains the first trace of warmth he has seen in the man so far. Just a bit.

“Domeric is almost a perfect son. Intelligent, talented—interested in books and music. But strong too. I saw him unhorse a knight a decade older.”

“Almost?” Jon did not mean to ask that, but he is curious.

Roose’s smile grows wider, but sharper edged. “Perhaps he has changed but I think not. Domeric has more talent than sense. He trusts and loves too easily. Such traits are dangerous, but I cannot say they are…unlikeable.”

“ _Father!_ ”

Jon looks up at the two approaching riders. One is a boney, heavy-lidded man, somewhere inscrutably under thirty years. Jon guesses this is Ramsay’s servant. The rider who called out is Bolton’s bastard. He’s heavier in bone, stocky. Dark hair hangs past his shoulders, one lock twisted in a thin braid, tied with a red charm. He looks nothing like his father, except for his eyes. That same pale gray, under a heavier brow but no less piercing. Jon guesses him around fourteen.

“And then there is my bastard,” Roose murmurs.

Ramsay trots up on a shaggy brown horse, his servant at his heels. The sandy-haired man watches the boy like a hawk. Lord Bolton makes brief introductions, and turns his palfrey back toward the Dreadfort. He rides ahead with his men, the boys and servant falling a bit behind. This close, Jon sees the bastard rides with his heels too high and elbows too loose. 

Ramsay is quick to speak. “You hunt much?”

“Yes, with my brothers.”

“You’ll have to go hunting with us, Snow,” Reek says, a drawling tone to his lacquered voice. Jon is glad he keeps his distance—the man’s name is apparent. Thankfully they are outside.

Jon wonders if the boy works at the mill. If not, he certainly lacks a maester. Perhaps hunting is how he stays occupied. “What do you like to hunt?”

“Everything,” Ramsay answers with a grin. He steers his horse closer to Reek’s, careless of the smell, until they are almost shoulder to shoulder, speaking too low for Jon to hear.

With nothing else to do, Jon catches up to Lord Bolton.

“The stench makes me ride ahead as well.”

“Oh, no that wasn’t—”

“I sent Reek to him as a jape, to punish his mother for banging on my gates.” Roose shakes his head, impassive. “I never expected them to become inseparable. At least he warns people about his rotten soul.”

“My lord?” Jon is slowly learning that for a man with such a soft voice and quiet manner, he is rather talkative.

“Like attracts like; they are closer than kin—”

“Father!” the boy calls out, cantering his horse up to Lord Bolton’s. He does not seem to notice his father’s eyes rolling back with annoyance. “Can we show Jon the forest round the Dreadfort? We would be at the gates by sundown.”

“If he so desires,” Roose says like a bored dismissal.

As cold and strange as Lord Bolton is, Jon would prefer to stay with him. But to outright refuse would be rude, and it seems he will spend several months with this boy…Jon swallows his nerves and twists in his saddle to address the bastard.

“I would like that.”

Ramsay grins and trots off the road into the gray-green field. Jon gives a formal goodbye to Roose and follows. Looking back, the bastard points at a gap in the trees on the far side of the field.

“A race? Just you and me, first one to the trees. Winner claims a prize.”

Jon has no wish for a contest, but before he can say so Ramsay has rammed his heels into his shaggy horse, elbows flapping as it breaks into a gallop. Hating to lose, Jon claps his heels into his own horse and races after him.

After weeks of slow and steady travel, the wind feels good whipping past his cheeks. Jon crouches over the horse’s withers, urging it on. But as they near the treeline, Jon knows he won’t win. His horse is tired from the journey east while Ramsay’s, though lesser quality, is fresh. _And he had a head start._

Once past the trees, the bastard hauls on his reins, his horse’s hooves driving furrows into the dirt. “I win,” he laughs as he twists in the saddle.

Jon crosses the tree line a moment later. He forces a smile, chest heaving. Growing up with Robb and Theon has made him a graceful loser. “Good race, Ramsay.” But he cannot help the tension that steals into his belly. “And your prize?”

“I haven’t decided,” he replies with a doggish grin. “Nothing that will kill you.”

Jon flinches as a tittering laugh scrapes his ears, just behind him. Reek has caught up, the wind strong enough to mask his approach. Though his speaking voice is oddly pleasant, his laugh reminds Jon of jangling keys. He looks askance at Jon with yellow-brown eyes.

“Come, the land is good between here and the Dreadfort.”

Ramsay gives his blowing horse a long rein and waits for Reek to draw close enough to speak. They are almost of equal height, whatever their age difference. Pushing back his sweaty hair, Jon feels thoroughly ignored. _Better though, I suppose._

His mind wanders to Robb, Theon, Bran, and Arya, even to Sansa. _When will_ —

“Ah, my father wouldn't want me to ignore you.” Jon snaps up to the bastard who has dropped back beside him. “So, what’s it like living in Winterfell?”

“I’ve never known any different...” Ramsay presses him for details, drinking in his answers—what Winterfell is like, where he sleeps, how his brothers are, dozens more. Jon wonders what he is thinking behind those pale eyes.  It does pass the time though.

“My lord, we’re here.” Reek has reined up his raw-boned horse.

 _My lord?_ Jon wonders. Surely an affectionate courtesy. They have stopped on a small goat path. The trees have started to thin, staggered with larger trunks that tower above the rest. Through the trees, Jon sees green. Somewhere, water flows nearby. Ramsay breaks off from his interrogation and looks around.

“Oh Reek you found it!” He grins and for once his feral face looks almost kind. “I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

The man smiles and dismounts, leading his horse to one of the larger trees. When Ramsay follows him, Jon sighs and does likewise.

“What’s this place?” he asks.

Ramsay loops his reins over a branch and ducks under another one. “A spot for practice,” he says with a smirk.

Rolling his eyes, Jon tags along. A moment later they emerge from the woods. He can see now why the bastard looked happy. It’s a small, isolated clearing. A span of bright grass, alongside a stream—Jon guesses a tributary of the Weeping Water. This close, he smells the wet rocks along the bank. The afternoon has warmed the air and brought out the sun.

“We can’t have our wolf lord getting soft,” Ramsay says, turning back to him. “My father’s honor would be at stake.”

He unsheathes his sword, a heavy falchion he holds like a meat cleaver.  Suddenly Jon realizes what he means, and his stomach turns. Rodrik would yell at him for drawing steel out here. He’s fought his brothers in the forest with sticks, of course, but swords were only inside Winterfell—and even then, the steel was blunted. His father’s gift is not. 

“Why not in the practice yard?” Jon counters. “I will happily spar with you there.” In his mind, he’s wondering how the bastard has had any kind of practice at all.

Ramsay fixes him with a wild grin—a smile that meets his eyes, but not in a way that makes Jon feel reassured. “Is a Stark too scared to fight a Bolton?”

 _What?_ Jon forces a smile, his words coming out as half-jape, half-barb. “You’re as much a Bolton as I’m a Stark.”

Jon might not be a Stark but he has the pride of one—a slight to his family cuts him as much as Robb. Yet he barely has time to ready his own sword before Ramsay rushes at him. Yanking his arm up to block, Jon grunts as his wrist jars. He reaches back for his lessons and finds them all wanting. He knows he learned specific steps and counters, but they are nowhere to be found.

Ramsay slashes at his throat and Jon knocks it away. _He’s not fighting my sword, he’s fighting me_ , Jon realizes. Like hell he trusts this boy to merely nick him as first blood.

Clanging and snapping they fight through the clearing. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Reek leaning against a tree, nodding slowly. _Who taught him to fight?_ The bastard doesn’t know a sword from an axe, grinning as he hacks and cuts.

 _Like days cracking sticks with Robb, switching them from swords to staves at a moment’s need._ The thought slaps some sense into him. Casting off Rodrik’s voice, Jon parries Ramsay’s next strike. _Thinking_ is too slow—he does not picture the practice yard or listen to commands about footwork. He just _moves_. Jon thrusts low, forcing the larger boy to jerk back.

A little jump, a little twist, and he cracks the flat of his blade against Ramsay’s knuckles. The popping _thwack_ is lost among the trickling current, but Jon feels the shiver up his sword.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Ramsay drops the blade, eyes slitted. Had this been the practice yard Jon might feel guilty, but he is having a harder time of it with Bolton’s bastard. It wouldn’t take Rodrik to know he shouldn’t be carrying a real sword.

The servant shoves past him. “My little lord, let me see that.”

Reek goes to his knees, looking over his hand as if the boy was just been bitten by a snake, more nursemaid than servant.

The bastard’s free hand comes up to rest on Reek’s cropped hair, as he looks down at him with an odd expression. It only lasts a heartbeat, before he’s pushing the man away, snarling that he’s fine. Finally, he glowers at Jon, his lips pulled back in a mockery of a smile.

“You win. We did not set a wager though.”

Jon forces his breath to settle. “Let’s just get to the Dreadfort.”

Sheathing his sword, he turns back to the horses still tied just past the trees. It _is_ a nice place, though the bastard had to spoil it with steel. A little place that smells of summer. The water trickles behind him, drowning out the softer sounds. It’s only a shadow—and a week-old fish smell—that makes Jon start to turn. Too slow for the thick branch that cracks across his temple. 

Jon’s world jolts sideways. Pain lances across his cheek, numb where he got hit and roaring hurt everywhere else. It’s his turn to swear as his wrist catches his fall.

Reek stands over him, looking down a vulture nose, eyes serene. He twirls the branch in one hand.

“Reek!” the bastard chides, stalking up to Jon who is propped up on one painful wrist and hip. With a wry grin he jabs the servant with an elbow. “My Reek gets _very_ protective…you’d think he birthed me and not my mother.” He leans down and hauls Jon to his feet.

It takes Jon a moment to realize Ramsay hasn’t let go of his wrist. He’s turning him, pushing—Jon bites back a yelp when Ramsay shoves him against a wide tree. He pushes at the boy’s shoulder but his wrist is half-numb and throbbing. This close, he can smell Ramsay’s sweat and cloying clove-sweet breath. The bastard carefully brushes a thumb across his temple, wiping away a trickle of blood.

“Poor Jon. I haven’t named my prize yet.” His voice is almost a whisper, almost like his father’s.

“Little lord, your sire wants you to sup with him just after sundown.” Reek stands aside, voice noncommittal. He smiles, baring a chipped canine. “We’ll have more time tomorrow, after Lord Bolton leaves on affairs.”

_Leaves?_

Ramsay looks over at his servant, mouth twisting. It is easy to tell when he is thinking hard, but Jon cannot guess what. At last the bastard pushes away, wiping his bloody fingers on his leather jerkin. _So he_ does _listen to Reek._ _Sometimes, at least._

“Ah, we cannot keep my lord father waiting. Come on, bastard, you’ve slowed us down enough.”

Jon fights back a retort. _You’re going to be here months more. Try your best._ Once they are mounted and moving once more, Ramsay turns and offers Jon a smirk.

“You’re good practice—with swords I mean. We’ll be twice as good in a year.”

It makes Jon pause, wondering if the bastard has misunderstood. “Thank you for the thought, but I’ll only be here a few months, until Lady Stark gives birth.”

A chortle comes from the servant, who rides beside his young master. Ramsay, however, smiles wider. It looks like sympathy, even if his eyes never lose their wild gleam.

“You believe better of Lady Stark than she deserves. Your father will find his lady wife much improved when he returns. _So_ happy that after she whelps her pup, he’ll be reluctant to reclaim you. As she planned.”

It makes something go cold in his chest. As much as he forces his mouth not to move, he can’t keep everything hidden. “My stepmother is distant,” he says at last. “But she is fair.”

He knows this is a weak thing to say. Theon would have some kind of comment that would toss Ramsay’s words back like a jape. So would Robb, from being around his foster-brother so much.

“Oh, you poor bastard.” Ramsay clicks his tongue in pity and straightens in his saddle, nudging his horse ahead. In a moment his servant steers closer and again they talk inaudibly amongst themselves.

It takes Jon a while to realize he was a fool to share so much about Winterfell.

* * *

As they near the Dreadfort at dusk, Jon thinks it wants to devour them. The battlements stand sharp and almost black, the stone a dark gray. Winterfell’s walls are daunting but… _defensive_ , Jon thinks. The crenels of the Dreadfort jut in sharp points to the twilight-purple sky. _Like it dares any to climb the walls. To climb straight into its mouth._

Guards wearing the flayed Bolton sigil on their surcoats quickly move to meet them, halberds high.

“My father has invited me here with my servant and his new ward.” Ramsay sits overly-straight in his saddle, stiff and cold.

 _Dumb-ox_. Even Jon knows if he tried to mimic his father to a guard the man would laugh himself silly. In the twilight Jon can make out the guard’s grin.

“Ah, the two bastards. Happiest day of your year I bet.”

Anger crackles off Ramsay as his jaw tightens. Reek, on his other side, puts a hand on his forearm. He knows the bastard wants to kick their faces in. Whatever respect the boy bears him keeps him civil. Barely.

“Will my father want to hear you detained us?” he bites back.

The guards wave them past. Before long they arrive in the courtyard and servants take their horses. Reek departs with them; Jon assumes Roose would not want him at the table. Now with walls around them, the man’s fishy stench is more choking.

The inside of the Dreadfort is hardly less severe than the outside, all stone and harsh corners. Sconces send wild shadows across the entry, making the walls flicker in red and black. Ramsay strides through without a second look. When they reach the main hall, Lord Bolton sits at the head of the long dining table. He gestures to nearby chairs.

“ _Jon_.” The lord’s voice makes him freeze. Roose’s eyes are piercing even from across the room. “You look worse for the wear. Did something happen?”

The bastard slings an arm over his shoulders and offers his father what Jon assumes is to be a charming smile.

“He doesn’t know these woods well. He’s learning to duck faster.”

Roose’s eyes are glacial but his mouth twitches in amusement. Not for Ramsay. _For what I might say._ Jon knows he could wrench away and tell the truth about the clearing and the branch he was not able to duck. The arm over his shoulders is heavy… _If I’m here for months…for years_ — _Ramsay was friendly enough on the ride back…_

“Yes, I didn’t see it. A branch.” Jon feels a small squeeze before the bastard pulls away.

“Best look sharper young Snow,” Lord Bolton answers. “Sit, both of you.”

They dine on venison. The bastard attacks with his fork more fiercely than his butcher’s sword. Jon’s aching head makes food less appealing.

“How is your mother?”

Ramsay looks to his father, pushing his hair back. “Fine. Why?”

“It is my responsibility to know my lands,” Roose says, voice dry.

Jon thinks his bastard does not see the sarcasm. _He asks because it’s proper_ , he supposes, not because the lord cares. Ramsay eventually leaves to find Reek, leaving Lord Bolton alone with his new ward.

“My lord,” Jon begins, trying to keep the nerves from his voice. “Are you leaving tomorrow?”

Roose sets down his fork, face unreadable. “For two days, to arbitrate a dispute. You will stay here. Too much travel is not good for a young boy.”

Jon looks down at his plate, appetite gone. His head hurts and his wrist aches. “Of course, my lord.”

Thinking he is forgotten, Jon picks at his meat, dreaming of a hot bath and a long night’s sleep. Lord Bolton speaks again after he sips from a goblet.

“You and my son are quite different.” Jon stays silent, not knowing what to say. “He is _keenly_ aware you were raised in Winterfell.”

“Why is that so different?” Ramsay wasn’t born so far from the Dreadfort.

“That is what I wish to learn. When my true son returns, he may wish to visit his half-brother. Will he find a trusted companion, as I imagine yours do? Or something else.” Roose looks pensive a moment, before waving a dismissive hand. “Have a servant take you to your room. You need a bath.”

Jon leaves as fast as courtesy allows. There is a servant in the doorway who escorts him deeper into the Dreadfort.

His room is comfortable, with a good bed and a smoldering brazier. Warm, not stifling. A bath arrives without his asking, but not without his wanting. He hisses as the cut on his temple stings anew from the water and his wrist still aches, but once he is dry and wearing fresh clothes they do not seem so bad.

Sleep should not come easy in a place like the Dreadfort, but Jon is too tired to care. Still, he jars awake sometime later, gasping into a pillow. _Something_ moves. Not in here, thank the gods, but in the corridor. A soft, unhurried tread.

Jon curls up—a voice whines that he should grab his sword, but he is not so much a warrior yet that fear brings an instinctual call to violence. The footsteps stop and Jon sees the crack of light between door and floor broken by two dark spaces. His breath catches but his heart yammers, while his jaw clenches to the point of pain.

A scratching _clank_ , followed by metal grinding against wood and more metal made deafening by his fear. The smaller crack between the door and wooden frame has a new dark gap—a deadbolt. _Locking me in._ Just as unhurried, the footsteps retreat.

It takes Jon another good hour to fall back asleep, and only because he knows there is no way to escape anyway.

Jon wakes up a second time, but he’s bleary and half-dreaming. The pain in his wrist keeps him from immediately dozing off. Long enough to hear something else—a second set of feet, heavier but making a more deliberate attempt at stealth. A slow clink, a soft rattle as the doorknob jams on the deadbolt. The footsteps quickly retreat.

He falls asleep only because of a single thought: perhaps the door is keeping someone out rather than keeping someone in.

When he awakens to dawn’s cold light, his door is unlocked. The air is chilly, refreshing even. Jon’s head no longer hurts unless he touches it, while his wrist is bruised and stiff but not useless. Dressing in the dark, he hopes he can find Lord Bolton and ask to come with him. Surely he could use another attendant, and Jon is not tired from travel.

But it is not to be when he finds his way to the kitchens to break his fast. Ramsay is already there at the table, soaking bread in egg yolks and chomping down bacon. When he sees him, he swallows a mouthful large enough to choke a horse and gestures at the spread of food.

“My father left at first light. Eat up, we’re hunting a wolf today.”

Jon’s growling stomach reminds him of his light dinner. He takes some bread and butter but stays on his feet.

“A wolf?”

The bastard’s grin widens, lips wet with grease. “A lone one. Reek saw its tracks. They’re small this far from the Wall, no need to be scared.”

Jon could refuse. But does he want to cower at the Dreadfort until Lady Stark’s babe is born? _Or forever,_ whispers a treacherous voice. Somehow, he finds himself saying yes. When they set out mid-morning, Reek tosses him a bow and small quiver. The servant has led out Ramsay’s saddled horse; Jon goes to tack up his own.

After he mounts, he finds Ramsay and Reek still on the ground, between their horses, talking about whatever it is they have yet to talk about—which to Jon does not seem like much. Finally the bastard shoves him, seemingly in good nature, and Reek gives the boy a leg-up onto his sleepy horse. At last, they are off.

Ramsay and the servant lead the way, letting the horses warm up on the smooth road. What confuses Jon is how quiet it all is. Winterfell’s roads often have traders and travelers. Here, it’s empty. Eventually Reek guides them off the main road and toward the forest. Just before he crosses into the woods, Jon thinks he sees a couple of horses, miles and miles off, but at least they prove the eastern North isn’t entirely desolate. Eventually they follow a branch of the Weeping Water.

* * *

By early midday, Jon is annoyed and uneasy. The bastard and his servant are making enough noise to scare away anything with ears. They have followed a strip of land along a narrowing tributary. At last the trees fall away and they arrive in a small grassy clearing.

Reek swings off his horse and leads it to a tree. Supposing he’s gone off to make water, Jon walks his horse up to Ramsay. The bastard nods to him, eyes excited.

“Good day for a hunt, yes?”

Jon shifts in his saddle as the horse sidesteps. “I haven’t seen any tracks…are you really trying to find a wolf?” Just then he realizes, stupidly, he has the only bow.

Ramsay smiles, the widest one he’s ever given him. “Of course we are. A _bastard_ wolf.” The widest smile, and the cruelest. “And we’ve found him.”

_Trap…_

A hand clamps down on his elbow and jerks, and suddenly Reek is dragging him from the horse. Jon kicks and flails, feet tangling in his stirrups, but all he gets is a spooked horse and a knee ramming into his back. His legs buckle and he cries out when Reek wrenches his injured wrist behind his back.

“Get the hell off me!” Jon chokes, head roaring as fire and fangs travel up his twisted arm.

Ramsay jumps from his horse, deft as a shadowcat, and backhands him across the cheek. “They might hear you all the way in Winterfell, but they won’t come. Play with us instead.”

As Jon spits blood, he hears Reek’s voice, smooth as oil despite his struggling. “My lord, have you decided on your prize?”

Ramsay’s eyes widen. _Like he’s play-acting_ , Jon realizes. _Like they have a private game._ “I think I have, my old friend. You know me too well.”

That jangling laugh scrapes Jon’s ears again. The man lets go and for one almost-blissful second he’s free—he heaves forward, going for his sword. Jon has never drawn in anger but now seems as good a time as any. His hand is on the pommel just as Reek springs at him again, shoving him headlong into the closest tree. The servant’s on him in a heartbeat, a hand grinding into the back of his neck. Just one touch, but it’s agonizing enough that Jon’s shoulders seize and all he knows is the bark scraping his cheek and the bones grating in his neck.

And a sound. A small thrum.

That grotesque titter becomes a screech and Reek’s hand jerks away. Jon twists around, going for his sword, only to find the servant on one knee, a stick—no, not a stick, an _arrow_ —sticking out of his calf.

Ramsay’s shouting something, unsheathing his sword. Someone dives at him. A flash of red hair.

“Cut his head off or cave his face in!”

Jon never thought he would be so happy to hear Theon Greyjoy’s voice. In a feverish moment he cannot help but think of times the three of them practiced less…polished ways of fighting.

_“Jon, remember, a knee to the face solves most things.”_

He never takes much of what Theon says as true or useful, but seeing the vulture-nosed servant on one knee, gawking at the arrow sticking out of his leg, Jon can only think about his foster-brother’s slipshod lesson.

His knee cracks into Reek’s nose, all crunch and squish. The man’s curse snarls out muffled and wet as he sprawls back, but Jon is already rebalanced and ducking away.

Robb has his sword out, and Ramsay’s hammering at it with his own, looking like he wants to slap it aside so he can claw Robb's eyes out.

Ramsay is older, bigger, not as well trained, though his brother did not expect the bastard’s ferocity. Robb fights to keep steel away from his guts instead of fighting back.

But it’s not so hard for Jon to slip up and brain the bastard with his sword pommel.  Ramsay drops the falchion and staggers. Grabbing for the sword, he jerks back when an arrow whistles past his hand. Jon snatches the falchion and before he can think he hurls it into the Weeping Water.

The bastard is suddenly aware he has two swords pointed at his throat while his servant has an arrow aimed at his chest.

“Leave now,” Jon says. “I won’t kill the son of my father’s bannerman, bastard or not.”

“Fucking Starks,” the bastard snarls.

Theon has the grace to sound offended. “Fucking _kraken_.”

Jon can tell Ramsay is gauging if he can take them. Reek has heaved himself to his feet, unbalanced and slobbering blood, useless. _Against two swords and a bow?_ Jon sees no fear in the bastard, just spitting fury, coupled with enough calculation not to orchestrate his own execution.  

“Come here again and you die,” he growls, and drags Reek with him into the forest. They will have a time finding their spooked horses.

“Aye, we’ll do that.” Theon snorts, and any older brother mummery falls away like an old mask. He turns to Jon, cracking a sharp smile as he lowers his bow. “Glad we found you before you were deflowered.”

“Deflow— _what?_ ”

Theon’s eyes blink closed a moment too long, enough to tell Jon he is being mocked. Robb looks just as confused. But the older boy just claps a hand on his shoulder. “ _Deflowered._ Sansa will know what it means, ask her. You hurt?”

All at once Jon realizes his knees are shaking like a newborn foal’s, and Robb hooks an arm under his own. “Just nerves I think—you weren’t hurt? Bad I mean.”

His jaw is throbbing but it moves fine. Jon nods. “ _Why_ …how did you find me?”

Robb guides him to the stream, dips his sleeve in the cold water, and dabs away some of the blood from his cut lip. “I wanted to visit you. On the way we heard a…story…about Bolton’s bastard. Caught a glimpse of you awhile back and trailed you here.”

“I can’t go back—your mother…”

Theon scoffs. “I’ll put you up with a lady friend in Winter Town if I need to. It’s better than a place called the _Dreadfort_. You’ll probably even like it.”

Jon knows he’s joking, but also not. Robb phrases it less coarsely.

“You’re my brother, with every right to be in Winterfell as I do. Mother is not herself. But she’s abed most of the time." Robb offers a small smile. "We'll keep you quiet for a few months.”

Something tightens in his chest, and he’s sure if he was a girl he’d be crying.  

* * *

Jon does not think about Ramsay for years, except when he overhears that Lord Bolton has lost his heir to an illness. Not until a day when Jon is Lord Commander first, a bastard second, and wears black far more often.

First he hears of Lord Bolton’s new title of Warden of the North, and the scandal of legitimizing his bastard. Then he hears of Arya and Winterfell, and that shakes him so much he allows a fallen king and a mad priestess to plan a rescue.

But then he receives a letter. It takes only a line before he hears the bastard’s voice, cruelty honed instead of tempered in the years since that day in the woods. Jon’s lips grow thinner with every word.

_Reek? Why would I have that vulture?_

Jon wonders what might have happened had he used Ramsay’s falchion to run him through instead of throwing it in the stream. He does not want to go down that path, not with all the dead who walk it. But he will not make that mistake again. 


End file.
